


Lovers’ Knot, Left Half

by fallowthought



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blood Magic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24793639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallowthought/pseuds/fallowthought
Summary: Anders and Fenris are soulmates. If only anybody in Thedas used their real name.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 162





	Lovers’ Knot, Left Half

Time was, Fenris could name each and every magical artifact Danarius owned. Guarding the repository was the duty he hated the most, because he couldn’t shut his eyes. Relics from sun-bleached isles, razor-sharp knives, drums that filled you with yearning, and belts that strangled you in your sleep—every single item was deemed priceless and close to Danarius’ empty heart.

It figured the man would arrive to Kirkwall empty-handed, and let Fenris down one last time from whatever ditch they flung his corpse into.

“You’ve assassinated most of your family. Who were you hoarding it all for?” he muttered as he sorted through the contents of Danarius’ travel chest. Not even Hawke would take interest in any of the treasures kept inside.

A pair of brass scales. Bath oil. Three bottles of Orlesian wine. Danarius’ favorite face towel. The illustrated edition of _Hard in Hightown_ by Master Tethras.

Fenris flung the book into the chest and dimly wondered where he himself rated on Danarius’ list of prized possessions. How much did he cost in bath oil, for the man to hound him after all these years?

He expected the chest to be full of gold. He hoped Danarius would bring along an exhibit of horrors and make himself easy to hate. All in vain, unless the horror in question were Varric’s novels. Fenris fumbled in the chest for _Hard in Hightown_ —and drew out a human hand instead.

It lay at the very bottom of the chest, wrapped in several layers of soft cloth. Fenris smelled it before he saw it—the spell that had been sustaining it had unraveled after Danarius’ death. Rot had settled in the fingertips, and the skin turned waxy from old age. Such a slight hand it was, delicate and brittle like china.

Fenris turned it over in his palm, flooded with numbness. That’s what he got for letting his guard down. He’d been away from Danarius for so long, he started to forget. At least the rest of the body hadn’t made the trip; Fenris had no illusions about the victim keeping her life after the fact.

He stood up to remove the thing from his home, his body full of paradoxical hate. All told, he should’ve been gratified. That’s what he wished to find at the end—a proof of Danarius’ savagery to ease his sleep at night. _Not like this_ shouldn’t have been a stumbling point.

He only noticed the soulmark when he drew close to the window. The name _Danarius_ looped around the wrist in faded lilac.

Fenris stopped short, light dappling across his tattooed arms. His grip on the hand turned rigid, and the rotten bones creaked. _No,_ he thought. _No. Not like this._

A sensible man would’ve sprung away from it. Sent it flying to a dusty corner, asked Hawke to dispose of it how she saw fit. He’d had more than his fill of sorrows.

Fenris pressed the dry hand to his chest instead. A bizarre sense of kinship reared up in him. They were companions in their misery—he and the unnamed woman who’d ended her life in Danarius’ travel chest. One day, they both stood in the way of a magister, and paid for it. 

He took her down to the icebox in the end. The kitchen was damp and overrun with mildew. As Fenris traced its pattern with his gaze, he considered the definitions of _worse_ and _the worst_. Somebody had to be out of luck, he supposed, for the rest to have it better.

He wished that, for once, the luckless had a say in the matter. If she could pick a soulmate at will—if he could…

He, for one, would never choose a man with a penchant for petty squabbles.

*

“So, your soulmark. You still have it?”

They’d been stranded in the Gallows for hours, and the mage was getting _restless_. Fenris could read it on his face, plain as day. Being restless, in turn, meant picking a fight with the closest adversary at hand—Fenris, in that particular case. 

Meredith had employed a classic negotiation strategy. She’d invited them to a meeting, and had refused to let into her office when they arrived. Danarius would’ve never let such a thing slide. The first (and only) time someone had tried it on him, Fenris had to have been issued a permit to the public baths—the household slaves hadn’t been able to scrub the blood out of his hair.

Hawke had simply shrugged and waltzed away in search of her brother. It never felt right comparing her to Danarius, though, so Fenris halted that line of thought.

“How is my soulmark any of your business, mage?”

Anders’ staff began monotonously clacking against the flagstones.

“I don’t know.” Clack. Clack. Clack. “But isn’t love _magical_?”

Anders gave him an expectant look. Fenris knew perfectly well what was going on. The mage wanted to get a rise out of him, so as to tell Hawke later, “ _Fenris_ started it,” and swagger away with that well-pleased smile of his—all the while Fenris would be left at the mercy of Hawke’s glare, wronged by magic yet again. 

A group of fresh-faced templar recruits clanked by, and Anders nearly cracked a floor tile with one of his knocks. His grip upon the staff grew white-knuckled.

That was a clear recipe for disaster. Fenris didn’t look forward to cutting his way out of the Gallows—certainly not in that heat.

“Danarius tried to burn it off me, more than once,” his mouth said of its own accord. “He believed that the mark could disrupt the lyrium lines under my skin. The name, however, bled through the burns, each and every time. Whoever they may be, they are nothing if not stubborn.”

Anders leaned in closer with an air of perfect nonchalance. “Is that it?“

“—And that’s another proof of the mages’ hubris for you,” said Fenris, sealing his doom.

Not his sharpest insult by far, but the mage brightened up at once. “What if your soulmate turns out to have magic? Wouldn’t that be hilarious?”

“No.” Privately, Fenris was cursing his rotten luck.

“I can just see your better half—and they _are_ better, make no doubt—scrambling off after the first _I-blame-the-mages_ diatribe.”

“Mage—“

“Presuming they won’t be put off by your interior decoration skills first.”

“Anders—“

“Don’t lose all hope, though—Hawke’s mabari, at least, is always happy to talk politics with you!“

“They are not a mage,” Fenris snapped. “You would cease that nonsense immediately.”

Anders’ entire stance shifted. “And how would you know?” He arched an eyebrow.

Fenris wavered. His natural reclusiveness briefly battled with the wish to bring his rival down a peg, and lost. “I know that because they are a Grey Warden.”

He referred to the telltale inky blotches around his soulmark. Even in Tevinter, where the Magistrate studiously avoided the topic of the Blights, people shared an _understanding_ about such matters. Fenris used to be envied and pitied in equal measure—by those who cared to spare him one or the other.

“I hate to break it to you, but the Grey Wardens do, in fact, conscript mages.” Anders spread his arms in proof of the fact.

“It’s an honorable occupation,” Fenris shot back. “Surely there are some trials to sift out the weak.”

Anders blinked. “My, Fenris—was that your way of paying me a compliment?”

“Didn’t the Wardens kick you and your pet demon out?”

“No. We _left_.”

A familiar voice barked out an order behind their backs. Fenris seized the mage by the arm and shoved him deeper into the pillar’s shadow—just in time for Cullen to march by, mumbling furiously under his breath. Anders was stock-still. He couldn’t possibly expect to hide behind Fenris’ narrow back, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

Fenris let go of him as soon as Cullen rounded the corner. “If nothing else, I won’t spend my whole life on the run. And I don’t have a paltry matter of _possession_ to resolve with my soulmate.”

“Oh, Justice will hardly be a problem,” said Anders, a little too fast. “The name is Tevinter.”

“Typical.” Fenris crossed his arms. “An abomination tied to a magister. Perhaps Merrill should start giving you lessons—Maker forbid you lose face at the first meeting.”

“ _My_ soulmate would never resort to blood magic. We wouldn’t be soulmates, otherwise,” said Anders, with a sky-high level of arrogance for someone who got possessed in his first year out of the Circle.

“Continue telling yourself that.” Fenris paused. “For that matter, surely even your soulmate would tire of you once your mouth starts running.”

Andres threw his hair back in a languid gesture. “My mouth is one of the things they would _never_ get tired of, love.”

“Unlike the rest of us, you mean,” Carver announced his presence, his voice higher than usual.

Hawke was there too, her arm tucked through Carver’s. “Oh, don’t mind us,” she said, her tone skirting the line between amused and exasperated. “I’m always happy to waste my time on your boyish antics.”

“I’m almost certainly older than you,” said Fenris. At least he and the mage could gang up on Hawke together.

Anders rounded his eyes in a picture of innocence. “Don’t look at me. _Fenris_ started it.”

Fenris took a deep, measured breath and made a promise. Squinting against the too-bright sun, he resolved not to trust a mage again. Any mage—soul bound or otherwise.

*

Some months later, Fenris sank down the front steps of the Hanged Man and brooded into the distance, his gauntlets slippery with magister blood. The second moon caught his face, and he gave it a baleful look. It went on shining, unperturbed. His foot hit a stray pebble, and he kicked it away, viciously.

_If nothing else, I kept my promise,_ he told himself.

Never trust a mage. A lesson well learned, that. He took on his markings for the family that wasn’t worth it, he pledged himself to the magister who enslaved him, and in his most secret heart he carried a name that revealed itself to be another brand.

They said the Maker smiled down on lovers and fools. If so, he sent the wrong message by ceding his own soulmate to the flames.

The wooden stairs at his back creaked lowly. “What a lovely night, eh? The other moon appears brighter than usual. Do you think it’s an omen?”

“Go away, Hawke,” said Fenris.

Marian plunked down beside him, right into the muddy footprint of someone’s boot.

“The dwarf at the bar just plucked an eyeball out of her pint,” she shared, eyes trained on the constellations.

“It’s the Hanged Man,” Fenris snapped. “She should be used to it.”

Marian bumped her elbow companionably into his own, and switched tactics. “You don’t resemble Varania much. Are you _positive_ that she’s family? Could be, Danarius hired any old elf and told her to play alo—“ 

“I recognized her,” Fenris all but shouted. “The moment I saw her, I knew.”

A group of patrons, driven off by the fight, was sloshing back inside. They all gave Fenris a wide berth.

“At least you’re free now,” said Hawke after a pause. “There’s no need to look over your shoulder. Plus, you found your soul—”

“A mage,” Fenris spat. “All I found is another mage to hound me. There is taint in my very own soul.”

Snuffing Danarius’ heart out was meant to be a triumph. The ultimate chain to be cast off. In hindsight, it seemed a foolish notion—everyone knew the Great Chain had no end.

Hawke balanced her staff on her knee, her eyes full of unwanted pity. “I’m only trying to help. Please, tell me how to make it better.”

“Take off my hand and be done with it,” Fenris said bitterly. “Or, better, the entire arm.”

The commiserative look promptly slipped. “Aren’t you being a _little_ dramatic?”

“I dreamed about them,” Fenris heard himself saying. “Close to the end. My soulmate, sailing to Minrathous and luring me away. They touched my collar and it crumbled to dust under their hands. At that, I always woke up—in chains.”

“How’s Anders to blame for that? He couldn’t even save himself at the time—never mind a slave on the other side of Thedas.”

Fenris smiled mockingly. “It’s not the rescue, Hawke. It’s the intent that counts. All I ever wanted was to be seen as a person—as an equal. I don’t expect _a mage_ to know the feeling. His kind is only good for crushing life under their boots.”

Hawke wordlessly gazed down her nose at him.

“Not you,” he amended. “The other mages.”

Hawke groaned. “Explain to me how you reconcile six years of running a free clinic in Darktown with _crushing life_.“

“Blondie’s boots are going to give way first. There are fewer holes in my book plots.” Varric’s silhouette hovered in the attic window, thrown open to let in the night. “Come upstairs, elf. You’d better take a look at this.”

“Loot,” said Hawke, springing to her feet.

_Danarius’ rooms_ , Fenris thought, and shuddered.

Inside, the buzz of conversation had picked up again. Danarius’ mangled body lay on the floor, crumpled like a sack. The patrons kept stepping over it to get the drinks. Fenris looked away, but even as the attic’s door came into view, he felt himself gripped by a type of religious terror. The door seemed to become the ill-fated door from a folktale that a young wife wasn’t meant to open.

“Anders climbed out the back window as soon as you left,” said Hawke, misinterpreting the delay. “You’re safe to come in.”

Fenris’ fingers gripped the door handle. He would’ve chosen Anders over the uncertainty on the other side. _I know his true name_ , he realized with a jolt. _I’ve always known it._

He pushed open the attic door, and went inside.

The room had taken on a chill from the wide-open window. It was sparsely furnished and poorly lit—Danarius clearly hadn’t aimed to linger. A bed, unmade, took up most of the space. In the corner, there was an unfamiliar travel chest, complete with a rusting padlock.

“Keep away from that thing.” Varric was on his knees, testing the floor for hollows with measured taps. “Your late master was overly fond of his party tricks, is all I’m saying.”

“I didn’t expect him to be so squeamish. He didn’t even use his own blood in the fight.” Merrill waved at Fenris with her pocketknife. She was cutting up the greasiest cake Fenris had ever seen this side of Thedas.

Hawke faked a smile, badly. “We made you a surprise cake. For the family reunion. We figured if Varania didn’t come through, you’d still get the cake.”

“It’s probably for the best if you _don’t_ eat it.” Varric tsked unhappily and moved on to the next floorboard. “Isabela may or may’ve not dropped her brass knuckles in the dough. Also, two words: Anders’ pauldrons.”

“Your jacket is smoking,” said Fenris.

Varric rubbed the back of his neck. “Turns out, I’m not as amazing at picking locks as I believed.” He was cradling his other arm close to his body. “Even the old, rusty, enchanted ones—“

“That’s not rust,” Fenris said as he knelt at the chest. The draft from the window chilled his skin. “I’ve seen such locks before. It’s blood.”

The tapping abruptly broke off. “All the more reason to step away—“ Varric started, but Fenris had already reached for the padlock.

Its surface felt stringy to the touch. The lock slurped as soon as his fingertips brushed it. It convulsed once, twice, thrice, like a beating heart, and dropped to the floor, thrashing. Hawke rushed to stomp on it, and it burst with a squelch, spraying her boot with dark viscous liquid.

“I think that’s _blood magic_ ,” she said.

“It was queued to my touch,” Fenris echoed in horror as he flexed his bloodied hand. He braced himself for another trick, but when he tugged on the lid, it readily slid aside. 

“Why would anybody need a lock like that?” Hawke demanded, her eyes trained on the chest. “What’s inside? Andraste’s ashes?”

Merrill tightened her grip on the staff. “We should take it to the Alienage,” she said. Some of the icing from her knife dripped into a murky puddle on the floor, and started to sizzle. “I’ll check it over for residual magic—they don’t teach you anything like that in the Fade—would you mind terribly if I ran some tests?”

Fenris considered all the items Danarius might’ve brought to the reunion with _his_ _little wolf_. Bile, unbidden, rose to his throat.

“There’s no need for that,” he said, snapping the lid shut. “I’ll sort through it myself.”

*

Aided by a flagon of strong wine, Fenris had all but emptied the chest when the pounding started. Someone banged on his front door like they called for war. He was half-tempted to ignore it—none of his neighbors would approach the _demon abode_ , and his friends wouldn’t ask—but as the tune seemed about to loop, Fenris’ patience snapped. It couldn’t be the mage, he argued with himself, throwing the door open. Anders never knocked. 

It was the wrong mage.

“You’re a top-tier hypocrite and a liar,” said Varania, catching the door with her boot. “Also, your house’s crumbling around you.”

Fenris briefly considered hurling the flagon at her, but he was short on alcohol as it was. “Let me guess—the Magisterium doesn’t want you anymore?” he spat instead, taking a spiteful swig.

Varania tapped her foot. “So you insist on being difficult. You haven’t changed at all.”

Fenris spotted the manipulative jab at once, but couldn’t help an excited jolt in his stomach. She _knew_ him. She knew him longer than Fenris himself did.

The revelation didn’t make him overly hopeful.

“We haven’t seen much of each other.” Varania stiffly clasped her hands behind her back. “I’d like to make up for lost time.”

“You chose a peculiar way to go about it.”

“Not at all. How about, I apologize to you, you apologize to me…”

“You expect me to apologize. To you,” said Fenris flatly.

Varania pursed her lips. “Reconciliation goes both ways. You need to take some steps, too, brother.”

“You missed a turn on your way. The Gallows are over there.” Fenris moved to swing the door shut, but Varania, quick as lightning, slid inside.

She placed herself in the middle of the hall, a stubborn set to her mouth. “I’m not your enemy. _The magisters_ are the real enemies. They’re the ones who pit us against each other. Can’t you see it, Leto?”

The sound of his cast-off name felt like a slap to the face. That name had been twining around the wrist of a mage for years. The wrist of _the_ mage.

Fenris snapped. “Danarius has taught you well,” he jeered, grabbing Varania by the arm. “The cordial words, the lying. My training is nothing, compared to that. They never prepared _me_ to pick my enemies—only to cut their throats.”

Varania spat in his face, and a second of disorientation was enough for her to wrest free. She stumbled away from him, unsheathing her staff. “I’ve been taught that, too, and trust me, you don’t want to see the proof. Your friends aren’t here to help you.”

Fenris drew himself up. “My friends are the only reason your heart is still in your chest. They are not here now. Get out of my mansion.”

“It’s not even _yours._ ” Varania’s eyes took on a dangerous gleam. ”You have no right to throw me out.”

“Perhaps not,” said Fenris. “I can still avoid you.”

So he did.

*

“We’re done for. This is a lair of depravity,” ejaculated Sebastian for the eighth time in as many minutes (not that Anders counted, oh no, not at all).

Hawke sighed wistfully. “I wish.” There was a fly buzzing around the cellar whose noisy life she was determined to end. _Whoosh_ , an electrical bolt shot out of her fingers and cast the trapdoor in a pallid gleam. The buzzing only got louder.

With mounting unease, Anders turned over all the occasions he relied on Hawke’s marksmanship to save him in battle. Opting out of the Circle lectures on spell barriers had been a mistake.

Sebastian shifted on the grimy bench. His intent, presumably, was to reduce the contact with it as best he can. “Why I let you talk me into these escapades, I have no idea. I’m not a sinful man.”

_That_ Anders wouldn’t put up with. “The last time I’ve sung the Chant, gambling counted as a sin. Should I expect you to return your winnings?”

Sebastian crossed his arms. “If I’m going to be sinning, I’m going to do it _well_ ,” he said petulantly.

Hawke cracked her knuckles. “As your friends, we’re obliged to spare you the temptation. Tell him, Louis. You’ll stop playing cards with Sebastian, won’t you?”

Anders gave her an unfriendly look. “That’s not my real name, Hawke. Frankly, I’m offended at the very suggestion.”

“ _I’m_ the offended party here. I’ve known you for five years, and you didn’t tell me _Anders_ is a nickname? I demand justice, Johann… no? Well, worth a try.” A burst of electricity, and Hawke fist-pumped the air as the buzz abruptly cut off. “Speaking of Justice, how does he like your soulmate?”

“He doesn’t understand mortal love,” Anders lied through his teeth.

In truth, Justice was utterly delighted. Anders couldn’t help but recall the early weeks of their co-habitation—at one point, he’d begun to have blackouts. His paranoia had been going through the roof until he found a stash of bodice-rippers under his bed. All of the soppiest passages had been dog-eared. 

Even now, any talk of soulmates set his heart shuddering in his throat. That was clearly all Justice—Anders chose to spend his time on things that _mattered_.

Hawke’s voice softened. “And how do _you_ like it?”

“I don’t think about it at all.” Anders squared his shoulders. “I can’t afford distractions, not until the mages—to the last man—are set free.”

“That would be difficult to achieve out of a padlocked cellar,” said Sebastian.

When Sebastian first agreed to help, Anders suspected a catch—anything from an over-high price to a betrayal. If he’d known that Sebastian intended to complain every step of the way, he would’ve refused on the spot.

Hawke stretched languidly. “Everything’s going to plan. Athenril’s an old friend of mine—I did some jobs for her when I first came to Kirkwall.”

“Why did her guards lock us up in here, then?”

“Must be some kind of mix-up. Don’t worry your royal head about it.” 

Sebastian didn’t seem particularly reassured. “I’m your friend,” he said, his sky-blue eyes wide, “and I would _never_ lock you up in a cellar.”

“Maybe you should ask the Maker to let us out,” said Anders sweetly. 

“No one _asks_ the Maker for anything. You only have faith in Him, and pray.”

“You may want to hone your bartering skills before taking back the throne,” Anders snapped. There was no more buzzing. The darkness started to encroach on him, uninviting and cold.

Sebastian primly kept his hands on his knees. “You’re behaving like a child. I’m not about to start a quarrel in the wolf’s den.”

Anders tried to conjure up a magelight, but it went out, weighed down by the looming dark. “You _never_ start quarrels. What’s the point of you? Giving voice to the establishment?”

“The Maker—“

“You’ve just proved my case.” Anders climbed up on the bench and messily banged on the hatch with his staff. “Let us out! And fuck the Maker while we’re at it!”

The trapdoor swung open, blinding him by the brightness. A woman braced herself against the edge and peered down at him.

“The petitioners must be kept inside,” she monotoned. 

_The petitioners?_ Hawke mouthed, but Anders put up a hand in warning. He’d recognize that cadence of speech anywhere. “These are Serrah Athenril’s orders, correct?” At the woman’s nod, he carried on, “What’s in it for you? I know you’re not getting paid. You don’t owe your loyalty to her.”

“I don’t know you.”

“I’m a mage, same as you. Listen, do you want to get back at people who did this to you?”

The woman frowned. “I don’t want anything. I’m content.”

“But have you always been so?” Anders asked, matter-of-factly.

After a moment of contemplation, the woman swung down a ladder and stuck out a hand to pull them up. Anders knew there’d be a sun brand on her forehead before he saw her face.

For some time, tranquil servants had been _en vogue_ among the Kirkwall nobility. Close-lipped, frugal and servile, a tranquil never slacked off their duties. They didn’t grumble about sick children or aching joints. The icky brand could always be covered with a hat. They also cost a fortune. The life of crime, for all intents and purposes, paid better than community healing.

The three of them got paraded through a maze of lofty rooms, laid out with Rivaini carpets. The painted ceilings portrayed tableaus from Dalish mythology. The tranquil’s heels clicked like a fine-tuned clock. A second, smaller brand scarred the inside of her wrist.

Athenril’s study was even more garish. Rapiers and swords gleamed high up along the walls. Hawke threw a vacant look at the sylvan wood bookcase, did a double take, and went green with envy. Anders would’ve been more impressed if the books hadn’t been sorted by color. 

In the corner of the room, a qunari woman was hunched over a writing bureau. A gold monocle hung from her horn on a delicate chain.

As for Athenril, her most prominent feature was the size of her eye bags. “Hawke!” She scrambled to her feet. “How did you get out of the cellar?” 

“The power of friendship,” said Hawke, throwing her arms wide.

Athenril snatched up her penknife. “What about my guards? Are any of them still in one piece?”

Hawke tsked. “You wound me. All of them are—I’m here with a business proposal.”

She shoved Anders forward. Athenril gave a small cry, and Anders softened his face before realizing she was glaring at his grimy boots. “Oh no. Stay where you are. I don’t expect you to recognize the perfection, but this carpet was made in Rivain.”

Anders took a token step back and cleared his throat. “I represent the Mage Underground. We must urgently break out some of our contacts from the Circle, but our escape route just got busted. We’d like your permission to use the smugglers’ tunnels for the night.”

“Out of the question.” Athenril’s eyes were daring him to ruin any of her furniture. “We don’t show our passages to anyone. Especially not to Hawke.” She gestured at Anders’ many-patched coat. “The point is moot. The Mage Underground clearly can’t afford to pay up.”

Hawke clapped her hands. “This is why we’re about to make you an offer you can’t refuse.” She straightened up under Athenril’s skeptical glare. “How about the eternal marital bliss?”

The derision fell straight off Athenril’s face. “Unless you suggest I marry into the nobility—“

“—I don’t mean _myself_ —“

“—In that case, I fail to see what you can do. No Chantry would marry an elf to a qunari.”

“Can’t blame them,” the qunari accountant chimed in. “I’m scary.”

“Lucky for you, I’ve whipped up a solution.” Hawke kicked Sebastian in the shin, forcing him to tear his gaze away from the titillating mosaics of Ghilan’nain. “Today, we’ve made the Chantry come to _you_.”

Sebastian nodded somberly. “As a Chantry brother, I’m ordained to perform weddings. The Maker would rejoice to take you both into his embrace.”

“You can’t kidnap a Chantry brother, Hawke,” said Athenril. “The Maker doesn’t count it if you kidnap him.”

“I’m here of my own free will,” said Sebastian, longingly staring at the door.

Athenril drummed her fingers on the table, deep in thought. “Agreed,” she said, held out her hand to Anders, but thought better of it. “You’re not going past my study wearing these clothes.”

Hawke opened her mouth.

“ _Especially_ not Hawke.”

There was a wedding feast, afterwards. Sebastian got strong-armed into attending as a guest of honor—the type of offer you couldn’t refuse—and Anders felt he owed it to the man to string along. As it turned out, it was the right call. The courtly weddings couldn’t prepare Sebastian for the grandeur of a smuggler one. Over the course of the next few hours, Anders wrested him from the clutches of multiple lovesick suitors—for Sebastian’s dick or his purse, he couldn’t say. The vow of chastity only egged them on. One dwarf in particular kept leering at him across the table. If Anders stood close enough, he’d probably find blood from her first kill under her nails. 

Hawke, at least, seemed to enjoy herself. When Anders saw her last, she had challenged someone to a game of _Never Have I Ever_ , but with knives.

Anders was trying to calculate the total number of venereal diseases in the room when Sebastian asked, “Have you ever thought about marriage?”

Before Anders could break out an acerbic comment, a rectangle-shaped qunari of unknown relation to the bride leapt onto their table and burst into dance. Any witty remark would pale in comparison, so Anders opted to go for some uncomfortable truths.

“I’m married to my cause,” he said as the shepherd’s pie crumpled under qunari’s heel. “Not that it matters. Mages aren’t allowed to have families.”

“I’ve always liked performing wedding ceremonies, myself.” Sebastian was undeterred. “I’m a romantic at heart, I suppose.”

“I would never’ve guessed,” said Anders. Guarding Sebastian’s virtue was hard work. He was greatly tempted to let Justice take lead and catch some sleep.

Sebastian gave him a beatific look. “But the highest honor for any Chantry member, of course, would be to ordain the wedding of a friend.”

_Too bad you don’t have any_ , Anders was about to say—when the hint hit him over the head like an anvil. He looked at Sebastian. Sebastian looked back.

“You offered to hand me over to the templars a month ago,” said Anders after a meaningful pause.

Sebastian smiled. He looked to be one step away from getting himself a buckle with his very own face on it. “The Maker’s ways are inscrutable. As are the ways of love.”

“What, are they allowing conjugal visits in the Circle now?”

Sebastian’s simper frayed a bit around the edges. “The offer still stands. I’m here to help if you ever accept it.”

Anders didn’t need any help. He’d picked the color of the banquet tablecloth when he’d been fifteen. Not once had Sebastian featured in any of these daydreams.

“Say, that dwarf doesn’t look half-bad,” he said out loud instead. “Maybe you should give her a cha—“

The qunari attempted a jump, and the table broke. Anders’ brand new (and only) shirt got ruined by spilt ale, but that wasn’t the worst of it. In the ensuing chaos, the amorous dwarf choked on an olive, and Anders’ professional ethics demanded he pass the night trying to revive her. Sebastian had to sing the Chant to keep him awake, twice over.

The rescued mages would have to devote their lives to the Revolution to repay him.

*

Varania hunted him down in the wintry ballroom, where Fenris was washing down his heartache with Orlesian wine.

“It’s not as if I had a choice,” she said, coming to a stop beside him. “He would’ve killed me—used me up for one of his rituals.”

Fenris pointedly snapped the neck off another bottle and took a messy swig.

“Come on, Leto.” She met his eyes in a large mirror that took up most of one wall. “Blood is thicker than water. You don’t have a line of prodigal siblings at your door to turn away.”

Fenris rolled a bottle cork across his knuckles. “Know a lot about blood, don’t you?”

“I know a lot about _you_ ,” Varania countered easily. “Aren’t you interested? Not even a little?”

The answering silence was all too telling.

“Let’s make a deal.” Varania’s smile showed teeth. “I will stay a day and a night for every question you ask. In return, you’ll have your answers.” She paused abruptly. “Do you remember the olive tree at our window? We used to climb it and spy on the others from above. It cast horrid shadows on the walls at night.”

Fenris didn’t know that. The only olive tree on their grounds was the _vhenadahl_ in the slave quarters. He saw it from his balcony, but never up close—his master didn’t want Fenris to mingle.

Other things gnawed at him. He didn’t look up from Varania’s shining boots as he asked, “Why Leto? It’s so— common.”

Danarius had taught him to consider himself exotic. A cutting-edge piece of art, his master’s finest work. _Fenris_ was a good name for a masterpiece—a name to be remembered. _Leto,_ on the other hand? A half of mud-stained urchins across Minrathous called themselves that. For years, he’d been turning over outlandish names in his head, and the answer happened to be plain as day.

“What’s the point of giving a child such a common name?” he asked, careful not to rub his soulmark.

Varania must’ve read his woes on his face. “What’s the point of having a soulmate at all if you’re an elf in Tevinter? Better to spare the heartache from the start.”

“I don’t feel spared,” said Fenris.

“You’re more than that. Most slaves would consider you blessed.” Varania sank down to the floor, tipping her head back against the paneled wall. “Or do you think I haven’t noticed how gifted your mage is? It’s a shame he’s south-trained—in Minrathous, he’d be on par with Danarius. The two of you might live like lords.”

“He’s nothing like Danarius,” Fenris scoffed, only to realize he should’ve protested a wholly different part. “And he’s not _mine_.”

Varania wordlessly held out her hand for the bottle. “If you insist. Still, letting a spirit inside you takes audacity. I’ve never seen anyone who survived it. Has he ever said how long it took him to refine the rites?”

“I’m the one asking questions,” said Fenris without real bite. Likely as not, there were no rites. The spirit shared a sob story about his oppressors, pinned the blame on everyone else, and Anders fell for it hook, line and sinker. “Is that why you called me a hypocrite? Because of the mage?”

Varania scowled. “You chewed me out for living off Danarius, but you don’t have any qualms about squatting in his house. How’s that fair? You even helped yourself to his luggage.” She waved a hand towards him. “Everyone’s forced to settle once in a blue moon. Have _you_ never done unspeakable acts on his orders?”

Fenris’ flesh crawled. Which was it, a stab in the dark? had Danarius _told_ her, as a lesson on the value of power? did his ugliest betrayal become a quip to be shared at parties?

There were a lot of bodies, afterwards. The Fog Warriors usually traveled in large groups. Danarius smiled and told him he was proud, but neatly stepped around the blood. _That’s not me_ , Fenris lied to himself, _it’s blood magic, it must’ve been terrible magic that steered my sword_. He knew the truth, though.

“Why am I a liar, then?” he asked, his throat dry.

Varania sloshed the wine around the bottle. “There were all sorts of rumors, after Danarius let us go. You didn’t stop to visit—and we weren’t allowed to see you. The other slaves said you lived in the master’s wing now. That you _enjoyed_ it there. They said you were currying favors with magisters, letting Danarius spoil you like a pet.”

Fenris recoiled from her. “Did you _believe_ it?”

Varania smiled a little too brightly. “I believe you now,” she said, and Fenris didn’t question her again.

*

The wind changed course, and blew the smoke straight into Anders’ face. Swinging the incense burner away didn’t seem to help, so he stayed in place as he coughed his lungs out. His coat was probably ruined, too. To think that it survived years of patients puking on it only to succumb to the stench of rashvine fumes—what a disgrace. He felt more like a village hack than ever before.

“Throw in some sparkles,” Isabela hissed in his ear. “That’ll make him eat his hat.”

Anders shot up a cascade of purple glitter, and she whooped approvingly. The ship deck lurched under their boots.

The ship was a courtesy of Isabela. Somehow, she found the captain reckless enough to take the rescued mages off their hands and to Antiva. The man didn’t seem to have any other merits. Beside the usual payment, he had demanded Anders enchant the whole ship for luck. If such magic truly existed, Anders wouldn’t waste it on anyone with annual rings of breadcrumbs in his beard, but he was never one to back down from a challenge. 

“Now make a flash—a big one,” Isabela advised. “To make it even more convincing.”

“Shh. He’s coming over.” 

The captain hobbled over to them as they whispered, squinting against the dark smoke. “I’ve been thinking. You mages know the future, right? Could you throw in some palm-reading, to sweeten the pot?”

Anders obediently grasped his clammy hand. “You’ll die at sea,” he said loftily, making a spectacle out of tracing the sun line. The soulmark above it had been tattooed over with a raunchy mermaid.

The captain gave him a tearful nod. “I knew it. Just like I’ve always wanted. Thank you, Serrah.”

As he lazily shuffled away, Anders cut a glance over at Isabela. “What are the odds he’ll lock up the hold and head straight for a slave market?”

“Not high. He owes me.” Isabela speculatively dangled her jewelry. “You, on the other hand… Speaking from experience?”

The rashvine smoke drifted sideways as Anders made a face. “An escape gone wrong. The only time in my life I was _begging_ for the templars to show up.” He paused. “Maybe I should say a dreadful curse will befall him if he ever breaks the deal. What do you think?”

“How should I know? I’ve done my part of the job.” Isabela studied him for a moment. “And you didn’t pay me anything at all, sweetcheeks.”

“Is it the rash again? If so, you’d really benefit from one of the safety lectures our Knight-Commander gave every—“

“Actually, I’m more interested in you and your lover-boy.”

The incense burner swung to a screeching halt. “Who told you?”

“Varric—“

“That little—“

“—was the first one. Then Merrill came by, but she didn’t stay long. After that, Sebastian—“

“I don’t give a rotten fig about Fenris!” Anders burst out. “And I don’t care if we are soulmates. I couldn’t care less if Andraste herself waved her knickers in front of me and proclaimed our undying love!” He sucked in a breath. “In fact, I couldn’t be less interested in the matter!”

“I see,” said Isabela. “Well, I’m interested. Out with it.”

Anders gritted his teeth. “It was his sister. Varania, her name is. She called him by his given name at the Hanged Man. Funny how I’ve never connected the dots before.”

Isabela’s eyes turned distant. “I remember how you showed off your soulmark to every client, back in Denerim. You were saving money for a passage to Tevinter, weren’t you?”

“It didn’t work out—I only ever found the slavers.” He bared his wrist, where the word _Leto_ bloomed in poison-green. “Show me yours?”

Isabela leered at him, but readily pushed back her bangles to reveal blank skin underneath.

“What’s your real name?” Anders asked.

Isabela winked. “What’s yours? I’d ask Fenris, but I don’t think he kisses and tells.” She paused. “Did I ever tell you about a boatswain I used to sail with? She became convinced her soulmark belonged to a high dragon. Went off to the Frostback Mountains to search for it, eventually. I’ve never heard from her again…“

As she chattered on, Anders quietly wondered what would’ve happened if he had stayed on the slave ship. Likely as not, he’d meet Fenris, ten years ahead of schedule. They’d fall in love at first sight, he’d give away his precious gold earring and die of yearning after their inevitable parting.

It would’ve been awfully romantic, and tragic, and Anders didn’t long for it one bit. 

*

Fenris propped himself against the front door. “I didn’t catch that. Say it again?”

“Meowridith,” Aveline told him, her reddened face seamlessly melting into her hair. 

“Would you repeat it? My ears are ringing for some reason.”

“The code word is Meowri—“ Aveline cut herself short. “You heard me perfectly well the first time, didn’t you?”

Fenris gave a one-shoulder shrug. “It’s possible. Then again, if I never get the password, I don’t have to turn up. The Mage Underground would do just fine without me.”

Aveline put on her scolding face. “Everyone’s counting on you, Fenris.”

“The mage should’ve thought of it _before_ coming up with inane code words. Even had I intended to come before—“

“Look.” Aveline put her hands on her hips. “I’m going to ask only once. Do you need any tips?”

Fenris lifted an eyebrow. “To do what? Get out more? Is _that_ why you keep inviting me to break out soon-to-be abominations from the Gallows?”

“No, silly.” Aveline gave him a self-satisfied smile. “For your soulmate situation.”

That took a bit of the wind out of Fenris’ sails. “Whatever you think you know, you are wrong.”

Aveline’s smile didn’t falter. “I owe you my help as a friend. I would’ve never gotten married to Donnic, if not for all of you. It seems only fair that I return the favor. Isabela says, you and Anders have started off on the wrong foot—”

Fenris cast a skeptical eye over her. “If you intend to give Anders a goat, I give you my full leave.“

“Goats are useless,” Varania’s voice drifted over from the kitchen, followed by an ominous _thud_. “If you need to do a ritual summoning, nugs work far better.”

Fenris shivered. He fell out of the habit of keeping his voice down in his own home. Not that Varania had anything to spy on in there. 

Aveline attempted to peer over his shoulder into the hall. “Fenris, do you have a _girl_ in there?” she demanded. “Is that the reason you’re staying in?”

“There’s no girl. I brought home a fresh corpse,” said Fenris, swinging the door shut.

Aveline yelled at him from the other side, but he didn’t care enough to stop and listen. As he strode through the cold, shadowy halls, his mind turned to the future. So far, Varania had been sleeping in the parlor—he had half a thought to offer her the second bedroom. The four-poster there looked inviting enough once you swept up the cobwebs. As for the roof hole, it wasn’t nearly as wide as he remembered. There would be stars on a clear night, to lull you to sleep. His mind made up, Fenris stormed into the kitchen—only to stop dead in the doorway.

Varania was stooped over the icebox, still as a statue. Cradled in her arms was a waxy, half-rotten hand.

“There you are,” she said. “I’ve been worrying one of our friends stole you away.”

“Are you speaking to me, or—” Fenris fumbled for the word, “ _her_?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s a heartgrinder.”

Fenris’ own heart leapt to his throat. “Did you just give her a _name_ —“ he demanded, only to be talked over again.

“That’s what they call these things in the North.” Varania stroked the faded soulmark. “It took Danarius years to get a hold of one. They’re worth a fortune—and notoriously difficult to create.”

“I can’t imagine why,” said Fenris.

Varania missed the sarcasm. “It grants you the power to alter mortal flesh. Rearrange the bones, strip away the skin.” Her hands trembled. “Evaporate the blood.”

“My markings,” said Fenris, a ghastly realization dawning on him.

Varania nodded curtly and added, as an afterthought, “Your soulmark. The heartgrinder can remove it as well.”

Fenris startled. “Nothing would come of it. Danarius had tried before.”

“Not with a heartgrinder, he didn’t.”

“Look at her,” he argued. “She’s about to fall apart in your hands.”

“Nonsense.” Varania picked off a hanging piece of skin. “I’ll find a way to restore it.”

“You’d have to use blood magic.” A peculiar sense of unease came over him. He was rapidly running out of arguments.

Varania’s voice grew soft. “Wouldn’t it be worth it? Just this once?”

“After I’ve spent years at magister’s beck and call? I’m not a hypocrite—no matter what you say. I know the hand is corrupted. By all rights, we should burn her.”

Varania gave an exasperated huff. “Next thing I know, you’ll be asking to hold a funeral for the thing.” She stood up, rising to his eye level. “Any other objections to get out of the way?”

“Purging away one’s soulmark is a sin in the eyes of the Maker,” said Fenris. It sounded flimsy even to his own ears. 

Varania stared him down. “I’m trying to help you, Leto. You don’t seem to appreciate it as you should. Now, do you want to get rid of it or not?”

It was as if a hundred-odd pairs of eyes drilled into the back of his head. He could hardly breathe for the weight. The soulmark had to go. Fenris wanted it to go. It was a logical thing to want. His hand flew up to his wrist, covering it from view. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

Varania pinched the bridge of her nose. “You don’t have to decide right away—sleep on it. Clear your head, grab us some food from the market. I’m not going to eat anything from the same ice box as a rotting _hand_.”

Fenris nodded stiffly. Already at the door, he let his gaze fall to Varania’s covered wrist. He didn’t stop to ask.

The streets were loud with hoof steps and the slamming of doors. The cries and the shouts drowned out his restless thoughts. Fenris wandered the twisting alleyways for hours, passing yellow-lit taverns and rickety, dark stairs.

When his feet led him back to the mansion, long after dark, the heartgrinder was gone. So was Varania.

*

True to Anders’ exceptional luck, the smuggling tunnels were flooded. Of course they were. It took him three rounds of Wicked Grace with the captain to get a rowboat, and he only won because Isabela stood over his shoulder and gave him hints. 

They arranged to meet Thrask in an underground chamber that had been part of the mages’ living quarters. The stairs leading up to the surface were framed by a pair of slave statues, supporting the archway with their muscled shoulders. The mossy steps led past them into the water. Their tiny boat nestled close by as they settled in for a wait.

Anders had fallen into uneasy slumber when he was startled by a loud rattle—Hawke wrestled away Carver’s helmet and was gleefully trying it on.

“How can you see _anything_ in this thing? Is this why Kirkwall templars are so incompetent? Are you all blind? I swear, we had a bucket on our farm that looked just like—“

“Why don’t you say it louder, for the patrolling guards?” Carver tried to bring Marian into a headlock and failed. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m breaking the law by being here.”

Marian held the helmet away from him on an outstretched arm. “Don’t be a bore. It’s been two hours—nobody’s showing up.”

“You don’t get it, do you? You can’t lecture me anymore, Marian. I have a _career_ now. Lots of networking opportunities, a room for personal growth. They’d be lost without me, you know? Knight-captain Cullen himself told me how much everyone valued my input.”

“Is he going to give you a fancy mug next?” Hawke asked. “Can I have one?”

Carver crossed his hands. “Whatever. I’m only here because Fenris refused to come.”

Anders, who’d been successfully faking sleep up until that point, opened one eye to glare at him. Under the weight of his gaze, Carver’s body language became increasingly more aggressive. It only took him a couple of minutes to snap. 

“So,” said Carver, jutting out his chin. “You and Fenris, huh?”

Hawke quickly shushed him, raising her hands in defense. “I didn’t breathe a word to him. I’m a wonderful friend, Pyotr.”

“Now’s not the time, Hawke,” Anders gritted out. 

“Aveline came by in the afternoon and told on you,” said Carver. “Wouldn’t have guessed it in a million years, myself. I mean, you’re nothing alike, are you?”

Fuck it. Anders was cold, heartsick and tired. “No,” he said, “We aren’t. I suppose it was too much to hope for someone good, and kind, and true.”

Hawke tried to pat his shoulder, but he flapped at her in return. “Oh, come off it! Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t give him a pep talk, too. I’m sure he was _overjoyed_ by the news.”

Hawke was silent.

“See?” Anders scoffed. “He doesn’t even want me. Why would I waste my time on someone like this?”

“I thought you only had hots for Justice,” said Carver, clearly thinking he was hilarious.

“I daydreamed about him in the Circle,” said Anders. “My soulmate, scaling the tower’s side and whisking me away to a faraway land.”

Carver scrunched up his nose. “What happens to hapless innocent magelings in chains? You’d abandon them all?”

“We brought others along, obviously. Those who hated it there the most. I tried protesting, but my savior would insist—of course he would.”

“In which soppy novel have you read it?” Carver asked incredulously. “What happens next? He makes love to you under the moonlight and tells you he’ll turn a blind eye to your magic?”

Anders rubbed his face. “I didn’t want him to look past my magic. I wanted there to be nothing to look past. For him to meet me, and only see a person. It doesn't matter. It’s nothing _Fenris_ would understand.”

Hawke gave him a long look. “Fenris might understand you a little better than you think.”

“Stop talking, Hawke. Please.”

A sound of footsteps echoed down the stairs, and a flickering light soon swam into view. A man in a templar garb reached the lowest step and scanned his surroundings. When he saw the boat, he nearly dropped his lantern in surprise. For a split moment, Anders was sure they’d messed up the patrol schedules. Then the templar helmet came off, and Thrask’s astonished face greeted them.

“What are you all doing here?” he hissed.

“Waiting for the mages,” Anders whisper-shouted back. “You are late! Where have you been?”

Thrask blinked. “Fenris’ sister took them away, a few hours ago. Did she get lost?”

Anders stared at him in disbelief. He’d wonder if he was sleeping and in the Fade, but the statues’ anguished faces were all too solid.

Thrask frowned, catching on to his mood. “Varania, her name was. She said you got tied up with something… Is there a problem?”

“A problem? A stranger arrives at the meeting point, and you just _hand her over the mages_?”

“She said the password,” Thrask pointed out, utterly lost. “She looked just like Fenris, apart from the hair. What—”

Anders frantically grabbed the oars. “We need to leave. Now.”

*

They found the ship being readied for departure, in dreadful silence.

Magic curdled in Anders’ mouth as he hurried up the ramp. The sting of it made his eyes water. A crewwoman stepped in his way, and he shoved her aside, causing her to drop the rope she’d been reeling in. She didn’t even seem to notice. Her fingers grasped at empty air, and her eyes stayed closed. She smelled of blood.

He stopped dead, only for Hawke to ram into his back and nearly knock him over. “Snap out of it!” she called out, but none of the crew raised their heads. Ringed by the dark, they shambled around the deck like puppets on strings.

From the bowels of the ship, there came muffled noises. “The hold, they are in the hold,” Hawke started, but Anders waved her off.

“You get them. I’ll deal with the blood spell.” He was off before he finished, chasing the flash of bright-red hair at the helm.

Varania was too busy arguing with the navigator to see him approach. “That’s not how blood magic works,” she was saying, as if speaking to a child.

The navigator shook her head no. “I can’t hear you. You aren’t enthralling _me_ , mage.” Her ears were stoppered with wax, Anders realized as he peered closer. 

The captain lay half-hidden by the steering wheel. Magic was coming off him in waves, thinning the air. His hands looked bone-white in the moonlight.

Varania let out a weary sigh. “Fine. Have it your way, then.” She reached for her staff. 

For a moment or two, Anders didn’t know if the woman was worth saving. Then Justice roared up in his mind, and all else fell away. Fire bloomed in his cupped hands, illuminating the helm. 

Varania tipped her head. A spell barrier sprang to life around her with a clink. “You realize that your friend is very loud, right?” she asked, meeting his eye.

Anders’ gaze snapped to the steering wheel. “I wasn’t aiming for _you_ ,” he said, and threw a fireball at the dead body on the floor.

It only took a second for the captain’s coat to catch fire. The blood spell burst like a blister, the impact echoing in Anders’ teeth. Someone on the deck below started to scream. Another voice followed.

“We’re on a wooden ship, you moron!” Varania joined the chorus, whipping out her staff. A torrent of seawater slammed over the railing, and the fire went out. The navigator scurried off to the deck, dripping salt on her way.

Varania’s back was turned to him. Anders tilted his staff, aiming to freeze and splinter her shield, but paused mid-motion. She slouched in the same way Fenris did. His spell dissolved in a mess.

Varania didn’t share his unease. Her staff thumped down on the deck, and a new wave, even higher, crashed around them. The force of it brought Anders to his knees. As he blindly grasped for support, a watery tendril wrenched the staff out of his hands and hurled it overboard. 

He tried to get up, but couldn’t. His throat burned with salt. Varania came to stand over him, her hair bleached by the moonlight. “Coming here was a mistake,” she said.

“That’s right,” Anders rasped. “ _Your_ mistake.” His mind was a turmoil as Justice howled and whistled within. He wouldn’t be denied release for long.

A lick of pale blue fire ran up Varania’s arm. “No use crying about it now,” she said. “It’s time I got used to disappointment.”

She met his gaze over the blue flame, but neither of them moved. Anders held Justice at bay with a tremendous effort, and Varania’s fire shivered. Her eyes were as green as they were empty.

“It’s a pity he’s so soured on Tevinter. He could prove useful there, you know,” she said, and it took Anders a moment to realize who she meant, but when he did—

He cut his glance over to the hold as his heart skipped a beat.

“He’s not here to help you, or to be rescued by you,” Varania read his expression. “In fact, I didn’t do a thing to him.”

“You wanted to, but he kicked your ass,” Anders made a guess. Their talk took an unexpected turn, but he would take arguing over crippling Fenris’ family. If it would help him stall for time, all the better. 

Varania gave a derisive scoff. “You think I couldn’t bend him to my will? Tear lyrium out of his skin? I told you, I left him alone.”

“So, you like your brother well enough not to kill him for profit. Got it.”

“He’s nothing like my brother,” Varania sneered in an alarmingly Fenris-like way. “He doesn’t know a thing about me, he doesn’t talk like Leto, he doesn’t look like him. This man might as well be a stranger.”

“You’d think shared blood would mean something to a blood mage,” Anders truly hit his stride. 

Varania’s face darkened. “He wasn’t pleased to be stuck with you, you know.” She brought up her staff, dropping her shield in the process. “All in all, I might be doing him a favor.” The green eyes looked down at him without a wink of mercy.

Anders steeled his heart and lunged for Varania’ staff as it began to come down, gripping her around the waist. Her head hit the deck with a crunch. In the ensuing struggle, the staff skittered away. Undeterred, Varania tried to knee him in the groin, but Anders wiggled away, eel-like. Her hand went to her belt, then—a dagger? Anders twisted her arm and wrenched the object out of her grasp…

It was a rotting human hand.

Her skin was warm like a lover’s touch. A shock of power shot up his arm as his fingers closed around her. Magic slid down the back of his neck, moist and coveting.

There were so many empty spaces inside him, and she found them all, and filled them to the brim. Debts not repaid, wrongs unforgotten and unforgiven, potential cut short. In her words, there was a promise. She talked about the righteous fire. She sang to him of justice, relentless, merciless, blind. 

A spirit went into a frenzy in his head, but the hand reached out and soothed it. At last, he felt at peace. He’d never be threatened by anyone again—from now on, his magic would be a boon. His Circle-given name ceased to mean anything to him.

“If you’re not going to use it, you’re welcome to give it back,” Varania spat from the floor.

How could he give her up? Why would he? The hand jerked to life in his grasp, clenching and unclenching her slender fingers. Even if he wanted to—she wouldn’t let him.

Someone gasped at the edge of his hearing. He swayed around his cumbersome head and locked eyes with Fenris. Blearily, Anders waited for those clever hands to come into motion, for that mouth to spew a sarcastic remark… But Fenris only stood there, frozen, his eyes wide and scared.

A wisp of concern found its way through the fog. The hand tried to placate him, cloying, loyal and sweet, but—Fenris stared at the hand. Anders gazed down at her fondly. There, on the inside of her wrist, was a soulmark in faded lilac.

It spelled a familiar name.

Anders came to himself with a vengeance. “What in the name of Andraste’s beard—“

He never finished the sentence because Varania socked him in the jaw. Blood filled his mouth as he reeled back, dropping down the hand. Varania rolled out from under him, quick as a fox, and lunged for it, but Anders held her back. She threw a magelight in his face, blinding him. As he let go, clawing at his eyes, he took an involuntary step back.

Under his feet, there was an ugly crunch. Anders gingerly lifted his boot. Particles of fine grey dust were stuck to the sole.

“You stepped on it,” Varania suddenly shrieked, “the heartgrinder, you stepped on it—“

“Good fucking riddance,” Anders shouted back, and grinded his boot down for good measure.

Pale blue fire blazed in Varania’s trembling hand. Anders prepared to duck away, but they were both startled by the sound of a sword sliding out of the scabbard. Fenris, clearly back to his senses, advanced on Varania. His face screamed murder.

“I should’ve killed you the moment I saw you,” he snarled, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Varania reeled back, and it went through the deck, raising splinters. “We are nothing but strangers.”

Varania backed away until she hit the railing. “At least we agree on something,” she said. She looked perfectly calm.

Her palm was scratched bloody by the fall. Before Anders could shout a warning, she pressed her fingers deep into the cut and jerked up her arm. 

There came the roar of thunder. A bolt of lightning split the sky in two and hit the ship mast. It shuddered and began to tilt over with an ear-piercing screech. Anders knocked Fenris out of the way a mere second before it landed.

When the dust settled, they were both largely intact. The tail of Anders’ coat got trapped under the mast, and he gave it a reproachful look before ripping it off. His jaw felt numb, so he muttered a healing spell under his breath.

Fenris got up to his knees, breathing heavily. “Where is she?”

Anders stumbled over to the railing and peered into the darkness. “Safe on my boat, sailing away. To be honest, though, it would take her a _really_ long time to row that back to Tevint—“

Fenris’ fist rammed into the deck with a shattering force. He got up, hobbled to the ship’s edge and spat overboard like he was spewing out acid.

Not being the most hated mage in the room didn’t feel nearly as nice as Anders had always imagined it would.

*

Fenris’ knuckles throbbed. He scraped the skin off his markings, and a slow trickle of lyrium oozed out, blue like bellflowers. Out on the wide grey sea, Varania’s lamp swung up and down.

Anders wordlessly took his damaged hand, and Fenris’ cuts started to scab over.

“I listened to her,” said Fenris. “And all she did was steal from me.”

Anders’ magic flickered. “The— heartgrinder thing?”

“Yes.” Fenris nodded to the pile of dust on the deck. “I would’ve given her away in a heartbeat—Varania only had to ask. Why would she steal _anything_ from me? Why wouldn’t she ask—”

“You can take a girl out of Tevinter.” The mage threw him a sideways glance. “I remember enough of your speeches, you know.”

“There were people in the ship’s hold,” said Fenris tonelessly. “She put them there. She’s no better than the rest of them, is she? A proper _magister_.”

The mage swiped a thumb over his knuckles. “A pity we don’t get to choose our family.” He changed his grip as the magic on Fenris’ skin sizzled out—and accidentally brushed Fenris’ marked wrist.

They both froze. Anders made to take his hand away, but Fenris swiftly covered it with his own. “You haven’t seen it yet,” he said. “You have my permission.”

Anders’ pulse raced. He nodded once, his eyes on Fenris’ face, and rolled back the band around his mark.

It looked the same as ever—bright as dawn, with inky tendrils of the taint fuming around the name. They both held their breaths as Anders’ eyes bore into it.

Several moments passed in strained silence. A series of conflicting emotions played out across Anders’ face.

Fenris tensed up. He should’ve expected to be let down… But whatever shade of feeling he hoped to find in Anders, wasn’t there. “What’s the matter, mage?” he snapped. “Is it truly so terrible, seeing your name on my skin?” 

“It might be my name,” Anders said slowly, worrying his lip.

Fenris’ insides froze over. “Might be? What do you mean, _might be_?”

Anders’ fingers dug painfully into Fenris’ arm as he looked away. “I don’t remember my real name, alright?” he got out in a rush. “I haven’t heard it in years. I always thought—I was so sure I’d know it when I saw it. Only I’m looking at it now, and I don’t—” His voice broke. “It’s gone now.”

Fenris’ head spun. “So, what are the odds there’s another Grey Warden out there, with _Leto_ on his wrist?”

“You tell me. How common is your name in Tevinter?”

“I’m not entirely certain,” said Fenris, swallowing.

Anders pulled his coat tight around him. The moonlight caught a crusty bloodstain on his collar. The only break in silence came from Hawke, scolding the ship’s crew on the docks.

Finally, the mage put on an unconvincing smile. “It’s all been a mistake, then. Hawke’s going to laugh herself sick.” His own voice was wet. “Congratulations! You aren’t stuck with silly old me, after all.” 

“What a relief,” said Fenris dully. The mage let go of his arm, and Fenris keenly felt the loss.

“I can’t believe we both fell for it so quickly.” Anders turned away to pick up bits and pieces of Varania’s staff. “The pair of us, soulmates? What a ridiculous idea. My destiny’s as far away as ever.”

The mage would talk himself out of it—will his words into facts without a wink of magic. He was slipping further away with each syllable.

Fenris sucked in a breath. “Your soulmate. You’ll have an easier time finding them,” he said, “now that the blood magic lessons from Merrill are on the table again.”

The mage whipped up his head, anger darkening his face. He flung up his hands, clearly scrambling for a reply—and stopped. “You sound awfully certain of yourself,” he said, a glint in his eyes.

Fenris scoffed. “A soulmate with a Tevinter name? It’s best you come prepared. A household full of slaves, ego the size of Hawke’s mansion, demonic rituals in your living room. They probably sacrifice children, too, and— and—“ 

“Little cats,” Anders supplied, leaning forward.

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Fenris nodded somberly. “Don’t ever expect them to put you before their own ambition. That’ll only end in blood.”

“What are the odds? I know _exactly_ what you’re talking about,” said the mage. “Grey Wardens are no better, really.”

“Tell me about it.”

“As likely to end up in an early grave as in your pants. If it’s not darkspawn, it’s gigantic spiders, or cultists, or falling rocks. Never home, rain or shine! First, they spend weeks clambering around the Deep Roads, then they wake you up covered in broodmother’s guts. _Hold on, you want to kiss me with_ that _mouth?_ ” Anders wagged his finger. “Trust me, you’ll never get the stains out of the bedsheets. Either kind.”

Fenris shuddered. “You don’t make it sound very appealing. I’m starting to wonder if I should look for my soulmate at all.”

“Probably not. Chances are, they are terrible—“

“—people. Both of them.”

“Chances are, they’re really us,” Anders blurted out.

“I don’t think we’ll ever find _that_ out, mage.” Fenris gave a mirthless snort. “Don’t raise your hopes up.”

Anders averted his eyes. “Out of all the things to take away—“

“No use crying over it now. I’ve had too many things decided for me to give you up because of the wrong _name_. If you disagree, I’ll get you a second rowboat myself.”

“Cheers to that,” said Anders, and threw himself into Fenris’ arms.

When they broke apart, some time later, Fenris’ hands stayed fisted in Anders’ coat. Anders’ hair came loose from his ponytail and tickled Fenris’ cheek.

Anders let out a breathy sigh and tried to walk Fenris back to the bridge’s door.

“We’re on a slave ship,” Fenris noted without much heat.

“We’re under a starlit sky, surrounded by the sea,” said Anders, getting a hand under Fenris’ shirt. “I’ve had sex in worse places.”

Despite himself, Fenris swayed closer—only to feel fine sand under his soles. “We’re also standing over the remains of Danarius’ soulmate,” he said, reluctantly pulling away.

“Okay, that’s a good point—“

“I remember her name,” he said suddenly. “I’ve seen it hundreds of times, on his arm. I can’t help you with your own, but I know that, at least.”

“I’m not sure she needs it anymore,” said Anders, smoothing down his coat. “Let’s just leave.”

“Wait. We should hold a funeral—I doubt Danarius bothered.” He looked around. “I don’t have anything—“

“I’ve got you.” Anders fished out a small jar out of the folds of his coat, sniffed it and started scraping the ashes inside, bits of it sticking to his fingers. Fenris lit up his tattoos to help him see well.

“Are funeral rites the same under the Black Divine?” Anders asked as he worked. “On that note, was she even Andrastian?"

Fenris hummed. “I’ll have to ask Sebastian. He’ll think of something.”

“Let’s avoid talking to Sebastian for the foreseeable future,” said the mage cryptically, screwing the lid back shut. “Fenris—“ He trailed off. “Do you still want to be called that? It’s not like there’s an abundance of good memories attached to the name.”

“You know me under that name,” said Fenris, and Anders didn’t question him again.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea that Anders doesn't remember his real name was borrowed from a tumblr post that I can't find anymore.


End file.
